My sincere wish for all of you dealing with the troubles and obstacles life heaps on us is that you don't lose hope. I have said before that the most beautiful flowers start out in a little pile of shit. Write it down and tell your kids at the appropriate time. I also tell my kids, "Show me your friends and I'll show you your future." I am the 4 times married Irish Confucius and don't you forget it! Don't worry, I won't let you!
I can also say without wavering that I do not believe in coincidence. Have you ever been thinking about someone you don't speak to regularly and they call in that instant? Have you ever been feeling down and some complete stranger says how pretty or kind you are? You may share my belief. If you don't that's fine too. One thing I am truly grateful for is that I don't have to be right all the time anymore. That was a lot of work for a lot of years. Even when I was wrong I would verbally beat you until you took my side out of pure exhaustion. Sometimes it takes a little distance between a preconceived notion of coincidence and "time" to see it really wasn't a coincidence at all. Huh? Read again slowly!
My father was my idol. That is as plain as I can state it. I hate to use that word but I spent a large part of my life seeking his approval. I did things hoping to push his approval button, and usually missed the mark by a mile. I built up grandiose dialogue in my head of me saying this and he's gonna say this and then everything will be just grand. I did this over and over, year after year almost to the time of his death. I always thought I was missing something from him, that was there all along. Once again because the approval package wasn't delivered in the box I expected, I mistook it for something else completely. That is, that he thought I was a loser and a failure.
My dad was a self-made guy, funny, hardworking, loyal and rich in friends. He was a staunch Republican, proud Vet and true Irish-American. He was strong willed and never let the facts get in the way of his opinions. Growing up I was an earring wearing, music freak who cried for world peace and shouted for equality among all men. I spoke in idealism, not reality. I was a punk rock Hippie, everything my father disdained. I am a liberal in theory but a centrist in practical application. Our polar extremes made agreeing on issues tenuous and sometimes strained.
He grew up on the Southside of Chicago around 63rd and Western in an Italian and Irish neighborhood. He did not embrace his Irish heritage until later in life. As a young man he wanted to be an Italian. Back in those days there was a street gang called The Son's of Italy. My father was the only Mick initiated into this band of Paisans. They weren't like the gangs of today. They were more like social clubs who dressed alike and had fist fights with other social clubs dressed alike. As he grew into a young man sporting pinkie rings, shark skin suits, Italian horns and driving fast cars was his thing. He ran the streets with his buddies and the babes. Italian was his modus operandi. He held onto some of his Italian wannabe ways until the end. Being married to a feisty, beautiful Italian woman might have helped him keep the meatballs running through his veins to the very end.
He grew up with my grandmother and her husband, Grandpa Bill to me. His father had split for Toronto when he was a young man. There he was a high class waiter in a swanky hotel who managed investments on horse racing on the side. Maybe it was the other way around. Either way, my grandmother was stern, sometimes cold and not exactly the nurturing type. I mean no disrespect. That is just the way she was. She worked endless hours leaving my father to be raised by the Southside way. The neighborhoods were his family and the streets his mentor.
Dad and Grandma were very much alike. I see that as a man but was confused and hurt by his distance as a boy. We never once played catch with a baseball or football. I resented that back then, but now realize he had very little interest in playing sports due to a lack of athletic ability. I, of course, took it as a personal disregard for my love of both games. I always seemed to look for what was wrong instead of what was right. When the little father-son scenarios didn't match my pre-written script I blamed it on him and was certain he didn't care about MY feelings!
On a baseball note, I was a Sox and Cub fan for years. It was perfect for a kid with a mind that raced at a 100 miles an hour. I loved Rick Monday and Richie Zisk. It wasn't settled until someone asked me who I would pick if they played each other in the World Series. Who would I want to win? That's when I went straight Southside. I am not a Cub hater though. I have enough chaos scrambling my noodle to add to that debate. I am a Chicago guy. If my guys don't make it I am not gonna bet against my city! I do, however, think that the philosophy of the lovable-loser is an oxymoron and sets a bad example for future generations. It encourages kids to accept failure and mediocrity as being cute. "Don't worry Son. You're only 32. Maybe you can move out next year." KIDDING! Now back to our story.
He married my mother and was so scared of his that he didn't tell her for a few weeks after the wedding. Both of my parents went home at night to their parent's homes instead of one of their own. I told you, Grandma was a doozy! After they did take up house together, as man and wife, my father dove into his car selling career. The long hours of work followed by nights out with the guys and "whoever" took a toll on my mother. They were oil and water, unless they were on the dance floor. There they were liquid silk. My dad loved to dance and he was damn good at it. My mom could cut a mean rug too. Both of my mothers, were and are, terrific dancers. My pops was the Tony Romero of his time.
They had a beautiful daughter, my sister Chris, in July of '63. We called her Chrissy. To this day that still gets the hair up on her neck when I call her that. I do every once in a while to be the pain in the ass little brother. I was born 2 years, 2 months and 2 days after her arrival. I weighed in at 4 pounds 4 ounces. I will let you figure out that word problem to arrive at my birth date. We had a cute little bungalow in Evergreen Park and our little family unit began in earnest. Dad worked all day and night. Mom dealt with my sister and I all day and night. Everything seemed to be going along just fine. It was a "Family Affair." My sister was Buffy and I was Jody. The only thing missing was Mr. French and Mrs. Beasley...or was that it?
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